


Right-Hand Man

by MindfulWrath



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Gen, Glamor Springs, The Eleventh Hour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8300665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: Inspired by this post by cosmiccucumbers on tumblr. Sazed takes off after the disaster in Glamor Springs.





	

Taako hasn't come out of his room in three days, and Sazed hasn't tried to force him. After what happened in Glamor Springs, Taako wouldn't be surprised if Sazed just left him in there until the smell of his corpse started stinking up the caravan.

He's a mess, and he knows it, but he can't be bothered to care. He hasn't unbraided his hair in days and its frizzing terribly. His clothes are disheveled. He's been staring at his hands so much he can't see them anymore.

The caravan stopped some hours ago, in some new town most likely. Sazed has been moving about, clanking pots and pans, opening and closing cabinets. The caravan rocks slightly with his weight as he moves about.

Taako tunes out. Not on purpose, it's just that the noise is so ordinary he barely hears it and there are so many other things in his mind.

The show. He plays it over and over and over, wondering where he went wrong. The spices? The chicken? The berries? What did he transmute, and when? If he can't remember it now, how could he possibly have been paying attention at the time? It all happened so fast, it was all blurred, he'd done it so many times he couldn't hear himself saying the words anymore—just like Sazed moving about the wagon. The whole performance was just background noise. Just like his hands—he'd seen himself do it so many times he'd gone blind to the entire thing. How many spells had he even cast that night? How many needless transmutations, flashy and useless?

The aftermath. Case by case, hour by hour. The vomiting, the chills, the fevers. Gastric distress, food poisoning. The first death. The second death. Fourteen gone by noon, thirty by two p.m., ten more in the last hour. The entire audience. His _entire_ audience. No one else.

The flight. The crack of the reins as Sazed spurred the horses faster. There wasn't a mob, yet. There was an unusual amount of pitchforks. Too many were still in shock to be angry, to figure it out, but it was only a matter of time. Sazed got them out. Sazed saved them.

Forty dead. Forty lives hanging heavy on his conscience like lead ornaments. His hands clench, though he can't see them do it. Traitorous hands. Wicked hands.

There's a knock at his door. He raises his head, his vision blurry and his head full of cotton.

"Come in," he manages. His voice is hoarse and stuffy.

The door opens. Sazed does not come in. He looks grim. He is wearing a pack.

"I'm leaving," he says.

"Oh," Taako says. "I'll . . . leave the light on for you."

"No," says Sazed. "I'm not coming back."

Taako stares at him. The words don't sink in. He can't make sense of them.

"But . . . you're my right-hand man!" he says. He can't find any levity, any brightness, any camaraderie.

"Not anymore," says Sazed. The skin around his eyes is reddened. He looks like he hasn't slept.

"Sazed," says Taako, getting to his feet. He can't remember the last time he ate. His legs will barely hold him. "Buddy. Partner! Talk to me, come on, tell me—tell me what's going on, here."

"I'm _leaving,_ Taako," Sazed says. "I'm leaving this and I'm leaving you. I'm not coming back."

"No," Taako says. He's finally starting to understand but he cannot accept it. "No, no no, you can't . . . you can't _leave!"_

"I am," says Sazed, unfazed. His face is stolid, stern.

Taako stumbles across the tiny room and topples against Sazed, clutching his shirt, shaking and crying. He feels like he's going to come apart any second now, just fly to pieces like a thin and delicate glass vase heated too fast.

"No," he gasps again. "Listen— _listen!_ Taako and Sazed, right? Sizzle It Up with—with Taako and Sazed! It has a good ring to it! A-a-a _great_ ring to it! We could—forget the old shirts! They don't matter, that doesn't matter, we can—"

Sazed takes his wrists and moves him away, gentle but utterly firm. His expression has not changed. Snot is running down over Taako's lips, tears dripping from his chin.

"There isn't any Sizzle It Up anymore," Sazed says. "Not with Taako, not with Sazed. It's _over._ You killed _forty people,_ Taako. You don't come back from that. It's over. It's _over."_

Taako stares at him, the words foreign in his ears, like Sazed is speaking some other language, or like Taako has forgotten Common. Sazed hasn't let go of his wrists. Taako is shivering where he stands like it's twenty below.

"But. . . ." he says, his voice broken. "But . . . you can't _leave."_

"Can, and am," says Sazed. "I can't stay with you, after what you did. I can barely stand to look at you."

Taako can't speak. He doesn't have the words. All the brokenness inside him is sharp-edged and jumbled. Sazed folds his hands over his chest for him and steps back.

"It's been real, Taako," he says, gruff. "Don't come looking for me."

He turns, glances back, and walks away. The caravan rocks as he steps out of it. Tears stream down Taako's face, blurring Sazed's image to a shrinking silhouette. Slowly, his legs give out and he sinks to the floor, and the tears become sobs that wrack him to his core. He claps a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming, to keep from drawing attention to himself as he kneels there, pathetic and disgusting and _all alone._ As he should be.

As he should be.

 


End file.
